Homecoming
by tiffywiffyfluffykitty
Summary: John is abruptly called back to active duty in Afghanistan and he and Sherlock part without the chance to tell each other their true feelings for one another. When John suddenly goes missing, will he ever return home and will he and Sherlock ever get the opportunity to confess their love?


**The title alludes to the act of coming home, instead of Homecoming, as in returning alumni.**

 **I confess, I have no experience of being in the military and I know the reasons for John returning to Afghanistan, both from him and the sergeant, are weak sauce, but for the sake of the story, please stick with this.**

 **Not Brit-picked or beta'd so I apologize once more for whatever mistakes I've made.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

John had been walking home from the market, enjoying the cool October evening, when he noticed a sleek black car with tinted windows coming to a stop at the curb next to him. Rolling his eyes, he stopped and waited, arms crossed and a frown on his face. "What is it now, Mycroft?" he asked, feeling annoyed. He was looking forward to a quiet night at home and had no desire to be kidnapped and taken to some obscure part of London.

But the person who stepped out wasn't his best friend's older brother. Instead, a woman with stony features and a distinct military bearing got out of the car and went to stand in front of him. "Captain John Watson?"

"Yes, that's me." He looked her over, briefly wishing he had Sherlock's powers of observation so that he could deduce what she wanted with him.

She put her hand to her head in a salute, which John mimicked. "Sir, I am Sergeant Joyce Brandon, here to give you this." She holds out a plain white envelope with his name on it.

Confused, John takes it. "What is it?" He opens it to find a letter addressed to him from the British Army.

"A summons. You are to be called back to active duty."

His head snaps up. "I was honorably discharged. I shouldn't—"

"I know." Sergeant Brandon looked upset. "But the British Army is requesting you to be deployed back to Afghanistan for a short period of time."

"Why?" John balled his fist, feeling the empty envelope crush in his hand. This wasn't happening. This shouldn't be happening. This was impossible.

Sergeant Brandon now looked grim. "There has been an increase in attacks from the terrorists over the past three months. They've been taking prisoners, pushing past our defenses on the front lines, and using guerrilla warfare to set surprise attacks on our camps and transport. Our soldiers could barely keep up. As a result, there has been a drastic decrease in medics and replacements will not be available until April of next year."

"That's not possible," John said flatly. "It's impossible that replacements wouldn't be available for half a year. There are reserves and other army doctors stationed in other places who you could bring in."

"I know," Sergeant Brandon says again. "But this is the unfortunate situation we're trapped in right now and we need you to help fill in the position of medic until the replacements arrive."

He let out a disbelieving laugh, his expression both furious and skeptical. "Is this a joke?" He brandished the letter. "Is this a bloody joke? Is this Mycroft pulling my leg?"

Sergeant Brandon looked affronted. "I don't have any idea who this 'Mycroft' is and I assure you, sir, this is very much real. I know this is a highly unusual request, but the British Army needs you."

He shook his head, still looking incredulous. "Why me? There should be hundreds, _thousands_ , of other discharged soldiers in England who you could ask."

"We did ask them, sir. However, not many accepted the return to active duty."

When John didn't reply, she clenched her jaw. "Please, sir, injured as you may be, your services are greatly needed—"

"Be quiet, Sergeant," he said sharply and Sergeant Brandon snapped her mouth shut. "I'll need to think about this."

"Sir, there isn't much time—"

"Twelve hours. You will give me twelve hours."

"I can't do that, sir. You'll have to give me an answer right now."

"Goddamnit, Sergeant!" John yelled, abruptly angry. "You can't just dump this on my head and expect me to come up with a reply on the spot!"

"We sent letters to your flat, but they have been intercepted. Attempts to approach you before have been deterred by… outside influence."

John let out a reluctant chuckle. "Mycroft, I'll bet. And Sherlock too." He wondered why the Holmes brothers have been trying so hard to make sure the Army doesn't get in touch with him. "It must be really bad if the Army is asking a psychologically traumatized man to come back."

"It's bad, sir," Sergeant Brandon said grimly. "It's really bad."

He laughed again, half disbelieving, half sorrowful. Of all the times the Army had to ask him to come back to the war, it had to be now. "Oh, this is great. This is fantastic. Great, great, great." He shook his head. "Just great. Absolutely wonderful."

Sergeant Brandon was watching him with an unsure expression. "Does this mean you accept, sir?"

He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes, thinking and debating. He was happy here in London, finally happy. He was happy in his little flat sipping tea and reading the paper, happy chasing criminals and visiting crime scenes in the dead of night. But he began to hear screams, begs, terrified wailing amidst the sounds of gunfire and explosions and a heartrending ache grew in him. Sherlock's face abruptly flashed behind his eyelids and his heart trembled, saying a silent apology. "Fine," he croaked, his voice was abruptly tight. "Fine, I'll do it."

He could hear Sergeant Brandon letting out a small breath. "Thank you, sir."

"When am I deployed?"

She retrieves a second envelope from her pocket. "All the information you need will be stated in here." She handed it to him. "If we had been able to approach you sooner, you could have had a week to prepare in advance. As it is now, you have only two days."

"Two days?" John asked sharply, disbelievingly. He sighed angrily. "Understood."

Sergeant Brandon nodded and snapped into a salute. "Your country thanks you for your service, Captain Watson."

John saluted her back and watched as she climbed back into the car, which drove away. Almost immediately after it left, another sleek black car took its place. This time, John knew without a doubt who it was.

He got in without complaint and found Mycroft Holmes staring straight ahead, a cold look on his face. "So, you accepted," he said as John closed the door. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb.

"Why did you and Sherlock try so hard to keep this from me?" John demanded.

"My brother has no idea that the Army is looking to bring you back to active duty."

John stared. "Okay, so why did you keep this from me?"

"Because I know you will accept." Mycroft finally looked at him and his eyes were like ice. "I've said it to you once before: bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity."

"So you think what I'm doing is stupid? You pompous prick." John's voice begins to rise. "People are _dying_ out there, Mycroft! They're dying fighting a war that you and the governments of the world are waging and nationals are sent to do the dirty work in your place while you sit back and play your bloody game of politics. I was one of them!"

Mycroft let out an annoyed sound. "Don't presume I've forgotten about your military record, Dr. Watson."

"Oh I know you remember," John said spitefully. "But what you _don't_ remember is that I'm a doctor and I took a bloody oath—"

"Which is non-binding and a—"

"Non-binding it may be, but it's still a promise to help save lives with the best of my ability and we both know I'm still more than capable of doing so, even with a bullet wound in my shoulder and a limp in my brain." John sucked in air, trying to think through the anger. "You don't know what it was like during the war, Mycroft. More people than I could count have died under my hands. But for every man I couldn't save, there were others I _did_ save and I can't, I _won't_ sit here safe and sound in London knowing there are more people— some of them who are bloody _kids_ — who are dying in some godforsaken desert when I could've saved them and didn't lift a finger to help them. I couldn't save some of them before, but maybe this time I'll be able to. Maybe I'll fail, but I won't know unless I try. I _need_ to go back."

Mycroft was silent, looking straight ahead again. John looked out the window, struggling to keep his emotions under control.

"I could revoke your decision."

"I hope you don't."

"Have you _any idea_ ," Mycroft said, an undercurrent of some indescribable and painful emotion in his voice, "what this will do to my brother?"

"Sherlock?" John's lips parted. "What do you mean?"

"Come now, even _you_ couldn't be so blind."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Mycroft scoffed. "Then it is your burden to bear." He looked at him again. "I will not pretend to understand your misguided feelings of honor that led you to make this foolish decision, but I will not stop you. I will only wish you well."

John nodded, knowing it was Mycroft's way of telling him to be careful.

"Know that my brother will be quite distraught while you're gone."

"Sherlock?" John said again. "No." He shook his head. "No, Sherlock won't be 'distraught'. He'll probably miss me a bit, but he's definitely not going to be torn up over my absence."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Dr. Watson." The car pulled to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street. John stared up at the second floor. He could see a tall silhouette moving around inside and his heart panged.

"Watch over him, would you?" John abruptly asked. "Make sure he doesn't get killed doing something stupid."

"You have my word."

"Thank you." He puts a hand on the latch, preparing to leave, when Mycroft spoke up.

"Know also that my brother holds you in extremely high regard, Dr. Watson. Your loss will undo him. For his sake, I advise you to consider your actions before undertaking them."

John stared at him, not quite sure of what Mycroft was trying to tell him. The man merely raised an eyebrow and John looked away, clearing his throat. "I will." He clambered out of the car and it zoomed away immediately after he shut the door.

The faint sound of violin music pierced the air and he looked up again to see Sherlock at the window, his lissome hands drawing the bow over the strings while pressing on the fingerboard at the same time. Panic suddenly overtook John and he shook. He didn't know how to tell Sherlock he was leaving in two days' time for war. He didn't want to know Sherlock's reaction; would he be apathetic or would he be enraged? Would he call him a fool, much like what Mycroft did? Would he even _care_ that John was going back to the battlefield?

John didn't think he wanted to know the answer. He didn't think he'll be able to take it if he left for Afghanistan with a broken heart.

He stood there, listening to the music. It was Paganini's _Caprice No.5_ , which Sherlock usually butchered while he was in one of his moods, but was now flowing beautifully. Although he was playing on his own, the piece was still magnificent and John closed his eyes, soaking it in. It will be a while until he could hear Sherlock playing again.

A police siren suddenly blared and he shot an angry look at the street, his expression only softening when he saw Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade jumping out of the cruiser. "Evening, Greg."

"John? What are you doing out on the street?" Lestrade asked, looking confused.

"Nothing. Just got home. Is something wrong?"

"We've got a murdered couple in Vauxhall. I texted him, but he couldn't come."

"That's weird," John said, frowning. It wasn't like Sherlock to pass up on a murder case. "I'll go up and get him." He unlocked the door and bounded up the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called as he entered their flat.

Sherlock already had his signature coat and scarf on and was striding out the door, brushing past him. "Come on, John, don't dawdle."

"Dawdle? Wait, Lestrade said you wouldn't come. What changed?"

"I thought it couldn't be more obvious," Sherlock sighed. "Put the groceries down; it doesn't make sense to bring them all over London."

"I have to put the milk in the refrigerator."

"Do it later."

"It'll go bad if I don't do it now!"

"Then buy more when it does." Sherlock was already at the bottom of the stairs. "Come _on_ , John!"

John groaned, but put the bag down. He called to Mrs. Hudson, who was standing at the door of her flat, as he walked down. "Mrs. Hudson, do you mind putting the groceries away? I left them at the top of the stairs."

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper!" But she bustled upstairs nonetheless.

John smiled wistfully. He'll miss her saying that.

Lestrade had gone by the time he came back out and Sherlock was climbing into a cab. "What took you so long?" he demanded, glaring.

"I had to get Mrs. Hudson to put away the groceries." John followed and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock rattled off an address to the cabbie, then sat back as the cab began to move. John nervously tapped his hands against his thighs as the streets sped by, wondering how he'll bring up the news and half-dreading the reaction. John was a brave man, far braver than most, but he balked when it came to the matters of the heart and Sherlock, without knowing it, held John's in his hands.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock's voice abruptly broke the long-standing silence.

"Nothing, nothing."

"You're fidgeting and your voice is at a slightly higher pitch than usual. You're nervous. What's wrong?" Sherlock's bright eyes roamed over him. "Is it the letter in your left pocket? Or the woman who spoke to you today?"

"It's nothing," John said before he could continue with his deductions. "I'm fine."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly and John fully expected him to demand an answer, but to his surprise, Sherlock turned away and looked out the window. "Very well, John. Out of regard for your feelings, I will not pester you, but your behavior is concerning and I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me what is bothering you."

John's jaw dropped at the unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture. Sherlock looked at him. "Not good?"

"No! No, it's good. It's very good." John cleared his throat. "Just unexpected."

"I don't see why it is."

"It's unexpected because you've never been this considerate before. Usually, you just force people to tell you what's wrong."

"I always make exceptions for you, John."

To that, John had no response.

The cab stopped and Sherlock leapt out, leaving John to pay the driver. His mind was still whirling. What did Sherlock mean by making exceptions for only him? Despite his confusion, however, warmth was sweeping through him and a smile tugged on the corner of his mouth.

Ahead, Sherlock was already holding up the crime scene tape. He looked over his shoulder when he saw that John wasn't there. "Hurry up, John!"

"Sorry." John ducked under it and they walked to Lestrade, who was standing to the side talking to Sally Donovan.

"Hello, freak," Donovan said with great dislike, glowering at Sherlock.

John scowled. He hated it when she called him that. "Don't call him a freak," he snapped. The three looked at him with surprise, but he kept his eyes trained on Donovan, who looked taken aback. She fidgeted under his glare, then grudgingly muttered an apology and hurriedly walked away. John watched her go, refusing to look at Sherlock, who he could feel was staring at him.

Lestrade awkwardly coughed. "Well, er, the bodies are inside the dining room." He gestured towards the house.

"Right," Sherlock said. He strode into the house, leaving Lestrade and John outside.

"What was that?" Lestrade asked, giving him an odd look. "You've never yelled at Donovan for calling him that before."

"Yeah, well, this is different. Listen, I need to tell you something."

When John finished, Lestrade looked pale. "You're leaving in two days?"

John nodded.

"For a tour of six months?"

He nodded again.

"Is that why you yelled at—"

"Yes."

Lestrade let out a shaky breath. "You idiot." He dragged his hands over his face. "You absolute idiot."

"I'm an idiot for defending my best friend?"

"I'm not calling you an idiot because of that."

John scowled again. "So you think I'm stupid for going back? First Mycroft, now you. Is there anyone in London who isn't going to mock me for this?"

"I'm not mocking you. I think what you're doing is incredibly brave and noble, but damn." Lestrade looked slightly sick. "You're going on the front lines, John, and it's extremely dangerous."

"I've been there before." John looked at his shoulder, remembering pain and blood. "I'll be fine."

Lestrade looked uneasily at the house. "I don't want to know how Sherlock's going to take this. You realize he's going to be insufferable without you here?"

"You mean more than now?"

But Lestrade didn't laugh. "You keep him in check, John. Without you, half the Yarders would've strangled him to death by now. You didn't know him before… he was completely obnoxious with no sense of sympathy and thoughtfulness. I mean, the sympathy thing is still missing, but he's a lot more compassionate. If you saw the difference like I do, you'll see that it's like two completely different people."

John looked towards the house as well. Sherlock was now examining the shattered window while Anderson, who was standing behind him, glared and grumbled. "I'm going to miss him."

"He's going to miss you more."

"You know, Mycroft said something similar." John frowned. "But that can't be right. Sherlock won't be that upset. He barely notices when I'm gone. I know for a fact he talks to me even when I've been gone for hours."

Lestrade stared at him, then shook his head. "John, you really haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

Before Lestrade could say any more, Sherlock abruptly appeared next to them. "Your murderer is a 40 year old man with a prosthetic arm and two dogs; a French Bulldog and a Shih Tzu, to be precise. He used to be a car mechanic, but lost the arm in an accident and is now working a desk job, which he's unsatisfied with. The husband is his current boss, which is why the murderer killed him, and the jewelry was stolen as a poor attempt to pass it off as a robbery, although the murderer could also be hoping to pawn them to pay off his gambling debt. John, anything else?"

"Er, I'll go take a look." He walked into the house and went to the dining room. Anderson was crouched over the bodies, taking pictures and collecting samples.

"Get out," Sherlock said brusquely.

"You've had your fun already. You get out," Anderson snapped.

"Children, enough," John said, rolling his eyes. He knelt close to the body of the husband, examining the neck and chest. "Right. The slashes are jagged and clumsy, so the murderer either probably used his prosthetic arm, which he isn't used to, or his less-dominant hand."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, a faint smile on his face. "Well, I think we're done here." He turned to Lestrade, who had followed them in. "I suppose a man with a prosthetic arm wouldn't be too hard to find, even with your incompetent officers."

Lestrade scowled. "They'll find him just fine."

"Good. John, lets—" He abruptly stopped as his phone chimed and he pulled it out, brow furrowing. There was a long minute of silence wherein Sherlock stared down at the screen with a stunned expression, then he looked up at John, looking unusually vulnerable. "John?"

John warily watched him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's silvery eyes flashed with anger and his features twisted. "When were you going to tell me this?" he hissed.

Something heavy settled in John's stomach. "Mycroft texted you, didn't he?" Damn him. Did he think John wouldn't be able to tell Sherlock himself? Damn him. _Damn him._

Sherlock whirled around and began pacing. "I should've seen this. Your nervous behavior in the cab, the letter in your pocket, the woman's perfume," he ranted. "Oh, there's always something! When were you told? Why so late? When are you leaving? How does Mycroft know already? Tell me NOW!"

John dimly registered that Lestrade and Anderson had left, leaving the two alone with the bodies. "I was only told today, when a Sergeant Joyce Brandon approached me while I was walking home from the market. The Army has been sending me letters and sending people to talk to me, but Mycroft has been intercepting them. Because of his interference, I only have two days before I have to go."

"Two days," Sherlock breathed. He had stopped pacing. "Two days." He stuck his hand out. "Let me see the letter."

John fished it out of his pocket and Sherlock snatched it from his hand, nearly ripping it in his haste to open it. "Careful," John said weakly.

But Sherlock ignored him. His eyes were moving incredibly fast over the paper and it took him less than half a minute before he stuffed it in his pocket. "Where's the other one?" He seized the second envelope from John's hand and again read at superhuman speed. "Two days," he snarled when he's done, his eyes wild and his face caught somewhere between rage and despair. "Two DAYS!" he roared. He turned and stormed out the door.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, running after him. He dodged police officers and the remainder of the forensics team, all of whom were staring as he sprinted past them. By the time he got out of the house, Sherlock was already halfway down the block and had hailed a cab. "Sherlock!" He watched helplessly as Sherlock got into the cab and it drove off. "Damn it!"

His phone chimed and he pulled it out to see he had received a text.

 _ **You're welcome. M**_

A string of curses and expletives streamed from John's mouth as he punched in a text.

 _I could've told him myself! You didn't have to interfere!_

 _ **Are you sure? Surveillance showed me you were rather indecisive after I left you outside 221B. M**_

"Of course you were watching me, you wanker."

 _You couldn't have told him a better way?!_

 _ **I simply told him you are being returned to active duty. Sherlock's actions are his own. M**_

 _Well now he's somewhere in the bloody city doing who knows what!_

 _ **Relax, Dr. Watson. I am watching over him even now. M**_

 _Is that supposed to make me feel better?_

 _ **Yes. Go home, Dr. Watson. Sherlock will arrive at 221B in an hour. M**_

John swore again and pocketed the phone. Lestrade came over. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, Mycroft's watching over him; says he'll be home in an hour." John ran his hands through his hair. "I should go."

Lestrade nodded. "Give me a call if you have to."

"I will."

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and looked him in the eye. "I might not see you again before you go, so I'll just say this now in case I don't. Be careful out there, John. Don't do anything stupid and come back in one piece. Sherlock's not the only one who's going to miss you."

John nodded and despite his panic from Sherlock's departure, he managed a smile as they pulled each other into a rough embrace, clapping each other on the back. "I'll be fine. Watch over Sherlock for me, would you? Make sure he doesn't get himself killed or worse."

"Of course." They let go and John turned away, heading for the main road.

"Good luck, John!" Lestrade yelled after him.

John waved his thanks and stuck his hand out for a cab. To his surprise, one came immediately and he got in. "221B Baker Street, please."

By the time he got back, only less than fifteen minutes have elapsed. John unlocked the door and found Mrs. Hudson sweeping the stairs. "John!" she said happily, setting the broom aside. "Where's Sherlock?" she looked around, as if he was hiding somewhere. "Is he alright?"

"Sherlock's… fine," he said, and even to his own ears his voice sounds strained. "Mycroft's watching over him. Er, look, there's something you have to know…"

He sat her down at her kitchen table and explained why Sherlock had disappeared. By the time he's done, Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes. "Oh, John…"

"I'll be fine," he said before she could say anything. "But I need you to watch over Sherlock for me when I'm gone. I… sort of expected him to be angry, but not this mad. I don't know what he'll do when I go." He paused. "Mycroft and Greg keep telling me he's going to miss me when I'm gone and I personally don't believe them, but they know him longer than I have so I don't really know what to believe."

"Of course he'll miss you," Mrs. Hudson whispered, taking his hands in both of hers. "He's so happy when he's with you, it's such a joy to see."

John smiled almost sadly. "He's furious."

"He's scared." She blinked and the tears threatened to fall. "You must be safe, John."

"I will." He reached forward and hugged her.

She sniffled and he held her closer. "It's so dangerous on the front lines. You could be hurt or killed." Her fingers clutched his arm. "You must be safe," she said urgently.

He only nodded. There were no words he could offer that would give her any comfort, so all he did was hold her and wait for the sobs and tremors to subside.

Once they did, Mrs. Hudson leaned back and wiped at her damp cheeks. "I'm so silly," she said, laughing. "Crying all over your jacket."

"It's perfectly alright." He stood and went to get a box of tissues. "It's not silly at all."

She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. "John, listen to me." He crouched in front of her. "You must come back to Sherlock as soon as you can. He'll be devastated when you're gone, I know it."

John shook his head and she grasped his hands again. "Trust me, John. Without you, Sherlock will be lost." Her eyes searched his. "Do you know?"

"Know?" His mouth was oddly dry.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, then sighed and shook her head. "It's really not my place to say."

"What are you talking about?"

She shook her head again. "You make him happy, John," she said. "Is it the same for you?"

John hesitated, knowing what she was asking. But there was nothing but kindness in her eyes. "Yes," he said eventually. "Yes, he makes me very happy."

She beamed. "My boys," she said fondly.

John chuckled and blushed. "I don't think anyone else knows."

"Oh, no, you've managed to hide it very well."

"Good. I don't want to complicate things between us."

"On the contrary, I think it's _exactly_ what the two of you need." Mrs. Hudson winked when he gave her a startled look. "You'll see when you come back."

"I will?"

"Oh, yes. I'll make sure of it." There was a look in her eye that made John shift back, suddenly very nervous of the little old lady. "And if— Oh!"

The front door had opened with a loud bang and John and Mrs. Hudson dashed to the hall to find Sherlock slumped against the wall. There was blood coming from a cut on his forehead and from his nose, his jaw was bruised, and his hands were shaking. "Sherlock!" John shouted, running forward. "What the bloody hell happened to you?"

"I got into a fight, obviously," Sherlock said, all arrogance and disdain. "Surely you can see that."

"You git." John snapped, angry. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson said reprovingly. "How could you?"

He gave her a sharp look, but didn't say anything. Instead, he shouldered past them and disappeared upstairs. John gave Mrs. Hudson a helpless and frustrated look, then sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good luck, dear," she whispered and watched as John followed his flatmate up.

The lights were on when he got up there, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John could hear water running, however, and assumed he was in the bathroom cleaning up. Deciding it was better to start with a peace offering, John put the kettle on for tea and leaned against the counter, staring into the distance.

He had no idea what was going to happen and that scared him. Sherlock was a mercurial man when roused and the impulsiveness of his actions had been one of the first things that attracted John from the very beginning. But right now, he would've given anything for even a shred of predictability from the man. Anything for John to know how the confrontation will play out and how he could keep his head and not do anything rash like kiss Sherlock senseless.

The kettle whistled and John prepared the tea before bringing it to his armchair. Sherlock's cup was put on the little table, but John sipped his while pensively staring out the window into the darkness. He waited.

Sherlock stalked out of the bathroom, his hair and arms dripping wet. He was still wearing his customary suit, although he'd removed the jacket and the water was soaking into the expensive material of his shirt. John forced his eyes away from the wet patches that clung to his chest and collarbones and stared determinedly at Sherlock's face.

The man snatched up his cup of tea and plopped into his chair, avoiding John's eyes. They sat in silence, the tension building until John finally had enough.

"Sherlock."

He made no inclination that he'd heard his name. But John was not deterred.

"I… know you're angry, but—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, not looking at his face and instead staring at his right knee. "You do not need to explain yourself. Mycroft has already informed me of your reasons for accepting the request. I…" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before saying his next words in a fast rush. "I believe that what you're doing is extremely noble and I would like to apologize for my earlier behavior."

John gaped at him, but Sherlock's face did not change. "I, er, well, I wasn't expecting that," he muttered.

A faint smile curled Sherlock's lips. "No, I imagine you weren't." He put the undrunk tea down and laced his fingers. "I do sincerely apologize—"

"Sherlock, really, it's okay," John said. Sherlock's gaze flew to his and John held it. "It's fine."

Sherlock was silent for a while as if waiting to see if John was lying, then he nodded. "Good."

John let out a long breath. "You know, I thought we were going to have an argument or something."

"We could, but as you are leaving in less than 48 hours, I feel that we should… separate… on good terms rather than bad."

"'Separate'?" John asked, alarmed at the word choice. His heart sank. "Sherlock, are you telling me—"

"No!" Sherlock said sharply. "No, that was not what I meant." He looked frustrated. "I meant… when we part…"

A relieved smile broke over John's face. "You scared me there. I thought you were throwing me out of the flat."

"I would never," Sherlock said fiercely. "I…" He paused. "I need my blogger," he said quietly, looking uncharacteristically pained. "You keep me right, John Watson."

Something thick caught in John's throat and a sharp pang pierced through him, stinging and stealing his breath away. He winced at the pain, shifting almost imperceptibly.

"Not good?" Sherlock looked worried.

"It's good." He looked down, hiding the sudden tears that came from the onslaught of emotion. "It's good."

Sherlock didn't look convinced, but something on John's face must have persuaded him to change the conversation. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Call Harry, for starters," John said, his voice sounding a little too husky for his liking. He took a large gulp of tea. "Pack my bags, take care of some things."

"Do you want company?"

"I'll be at home most of the time, but sure. Of course."

A smile lit up Sherlock's face and he stood. "Would you like dinner? We can go to the Chinese down the block or Angelo's, if you'd like."

"Chinese is fine." He stands and shrugs on his coat. "I'm in the mood for dim sum."

"I can already predict the fortune cookies," Sherlock said, putting on his jacket.

"The last time you tried, you got it completely wrong."

"I got it partially right."

"No you didn't. My cookie said I'll find happiness in my life. You said my cookie told me to make new friends."

"Like I said: partially right." Sherlock looked at John in an indulging way, like an adult does to a child.

"How was that even remotely right?" They walked down the stairs and out of the corner of his eye, John sees Mrs. Hudson peering nervously at them from the door of her flat. He smiles reassuringly and she lets out an inaudible sigh of relief, hand over her chest.

"Do you want the shrimp dumplings?" Sherlock pulled open the door. "Or the pork buns?"

"Both. I'm starving."

They gorged on little dumplings and leaf-wrapped sticky rice. Sherlock amused them both by making small, harmless deductions of the other patrons that John laughed at or commented on. A small, satisfied smile would appear on Sherlock's face each time and John made sure to commit it to memory. He wouldn't be able to carry a picture of Sherlock with him to Afghanistan, but this would be enough.

A waitress placed the tab and two cookies on their table when they were finished. John selected one and grinned at Sherlock. "Guess what my cookie says."

Sherlock eyed it speculatively. "'Ignore previous cookie'," he said decidedly.

"Really?"

"Cookies tend to be ironic at the most unorthodox times," Sherlock said, smirking. "Mine will say that I'm about to have a chance encounter with someone from my past."

"Rather confident about that, aren't you?"

"That's because I am."

They cracked open their cookies. "If you're wrong, you're paying," John warned.

"Fine."

John pulled his fortune out and popped the cookie halves into his mouth, chewing as he read: _you will get what your heart desires_. A smile spread over his face. It was only a fortune cookie, hardly worth putting any stock in, but somehow the little slip of paper made his heart soar. "Huh, wrong again, Sherlock," he said, looking up. "Looks like—"

But he faltered, as he saw that Sherlock had gone rigid. His eyes flashed and his lips were pressed tight. The fortune was clutched in his hands, half-hidden and stretched taut. Sherlock suddenly blinked, took a quick breath, and looked up. "Did you say something, John?" His voice was pleasant, but there was a slight strain to it that would have been virtually undetectable by anyone not John Watson.

"What's wrong with the fortune, Sherlock?" he asked severely.

"The fortune? Ah, yes, it just hit a little too close to home, that's all." He airily waved his hand, brushing it off as he stood. "I was wrong about your fortune then? I'll get the tab. What does it say?" He snatched it up. "Rather far from the mark this time, wasn't I? Pity."

"What about your fortune?" John held his hand out for it, but Sherlock had already swept away towards the cashier.

"It's really nothing to worry about, John," Sherlock said once outside. "It was just an unexpected surprise."

"Unexpected how?"

"It offered some astonishingly good advice, which might be worth following if I didn't think following the advice of a random slip of paper a complete waste of time." Sherlock unlocked the door of 221B and walked in.

"No, no there was definitely something more than that," John said, following him up the stairs. "No one looks like that because of a fortune cookie."

"Well I'm fine now," Sherlock said dismissively, throwing himself into his armchair.

John eyed him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course," he said impatiently. "Shouldn't you go to sleep? You have a long day tomorrow."

John sighed. "Yes, I do." He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "If Mycroft hadn't interfered, I would have days to get ready."

"Yes, I spoke to him about that," Sherlock said, pressing his hands together.

"What did you say?"

Sherlock merely smiled.

John stared at him, eyebrow raised, but his flatmate did not deign to give him an answer. "Alright, if you're not going to say anything I'll just go." He turned to go upstairs.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said behind him.

He paused just outside the door. There was something about that farewell that sounded… despondent. But that couldn't be right. John was the one leaving, not Sherlock. He looked back at him, but Sherlock hadn't moved and instead was watching him, his face unfathomable. "Goodnight," John eventually said and turned away, feeling inexplicably sad.

That night, the aching cries of a violin lulled him to sleep.

* * *

He stood in the living room of 221B in his uniform, rifling through his bag to check if he'd missed anything. Sherlock stood nearby, watching with an inscrutable expression. His face had been carefully blank all throughout the entirety of yesterday and this morning from the moment John had walked downstairs to a feast of a breakfast prepared by Mrs. Hudson to now, only three hours later.

"Okay. I'm set." He stood straight and checked the time on his watch. According to the instructions given to him by Sergeant Brandon, he was to take a commercial flight at 11:15 a.m. to Germany before being deployed to a base in Afghanistan from there. "I have… six minutes until I have to leave for the airport."

"Would you like another cup of coffee, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, already getting up from her seat. "Or another piece of toast?"

"No, its fine, Mrs. Hudson. I've had enough."

"Shall I order a cab, then?"

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said from his spot by the window. "Mycroft will send a car."

"He will?" John asked, surprised. "That's, er, unexpectedly generous of him."

Sherlock smirked, then his face slipped back into that vacant mask. John hated it. Sherlock was a man of not just logic, but emotion, no matter how much he denied it. His expressions, whether angry or ecstatic, were testament to how tempestuous he could be and the mask he wore now was nearly everything John disliked about him: distant, heartless, condescending, and coldly analytical. He wanted to punch it off, sink his fist into that perfect face and bruise that pale skin, but it was almost time to go and he didn't want to leave knowing he'd injured his best friend. He wondered, however, why Sherlock had left it on for so long.

"Is there anything else you need to bring? Scarves, mittens, extra socks?" Mrs. Hudson's hands fluttered, itching for something to do to stave off her nervousness. "Toothpaste?"

"I have everything," John assured her. He grasped her hands. "I'll be fine," he said, smiling. "I'm only gone for a few months; I'll be back before you know it."

She nodded jerkily. "Be safe, John," she implored.

"I will." He kisses her on the cheek and she smiled, tears gathering in her eyes. "You can send a care package, if it makes you feel better," he joked.

She gasped and her hands clapped together. "Oh, yes! I've forgot about those!" Her sadness forgotten, Mrs. Hudson beamed and patted his arm affectionately. "I'll be sure to send some of my biscuits; I know how much you like them."

"The chocolate ones?"

"Of course, dear."

He grinned. "Make sure Sherlock doesn't get to them first."

Mrs. Hudson laughed and John quickly glanced at Sherlock, but the mask did not drop. He was, however, staring out the window with his hand clenched around the curtain. As if sensing John's gaze, he looked around. "Mycroft's car is here," he said quietly, his voice subdued.

John sucked in a quick breath and looked around at his flat, taking in the familiar sight. He wondered how much it would change by the time he got back and a wave of sadness swept through him. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, who had tears in her eyes again. "Time to go," he said gently.

She pulls him into a hug, holding him tightly. "Come home soon," she whispered.

He nodded, suddenly unable to speak due to the lump in his throat, and she released him, smiling in a rather watery way. John smiled back at the woman who had been like a mother to him and turned away to pick up his duffel bag.

Sherlock was standing by the doorway, dressed in his coat and scarf. "You're coming?" John asked, feeling hopeful.

"Of course I am."

John grinned and walked forward, down the stairs, out the door, and into the street where a sleek black car was waiting to take him to Heathrow Airport. Sherlock followed and together, they climbed into the car.

Mycroft wasn't there and John was grateful that he wasn't. He needed to be with Sherlock.

They spent the ride in silence, not looking at each other. John stared unseeingly out the window, fists clenching, wishing he or Sherlock would break the tense quiet. But he couldn't think of anything to say. Something banal or something heartfelt? Should he say the common, cliché words of parting and tell Sherlock to take care of himself while he was gone? Or should he be daring, and reveal his feelings for the man?

Before he could make a decision, however, they've arrived. Sherlock gets out first and John follows, his feet feeling like they were being weighed down and his heart had become unbearably heavy.

The car left as soon as John closed the door and he wondered how Sherlock was going to get home, but then decided that Sherlock could always get a cab. He walked into the terminal and went to check-in, Sherlock by his side. They didn't say a word to each other until, suddenly, it was time to go.

John stared at the security checkpoint, suddenly frozen. He couldn't move, even to turn his head towards Sherlock. His mind raced. What should he say now?

"John."

A shudder ran through him at the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice and his body relaxed. "Yes?" He turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him.

The mask had broken and he looked conflicted. His hands were shoved into his pockets, but John could see the fabric moving as his fingers shifted. "I…" Sherlock closed his mouth.

They stared at each other, lost, until John cleared his throat. "Well, er, I guess this is it." He shuffled, desperately trying to think of a way to break the awkwardness of the situation.

Sherlock seemed to finally get himself together and gave him a sincere smile. "I'll be looking forward to the day you come home." He put forth a hand.

A smile broke across John's face. "I'll be looking forward to it too." He shook Sherlock's hand, wishing for more, wishing he could grasp his shoulders and pull him down or pull himself up and kiss him until they were both breathless and gasping and John could finally know what it was like to taste Sherlock and feel the imprint of Sherlock's lips on his, their bodies pressed together—

He blinked and the fantasy was gone. Sherlock's smile wavered slightly. "Be careful, John," he said. "Try not to be reckless."

"Same could be said for you."

"Yes, but I'm not the one going to war." Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

"I'm only going to help patch up the soldiers, I'm not going to be chasing down the terrorists." Now it was John who gave him a look.

Sherlock chuckled and John found himself desperately staring at him, drinking him in, trying to remember every single detail from the way the light turned his eyes a pale green and caught the brown in his hair to the shape of his lips with that delectable Cupid's bow and the glimmer of white teeth as he laughed. He was beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. Too beautiful for the corruption, hate, and pain John has seen and experienced. And yet John loved him so much it hurt like almost nothing else he'd experienced before.

He impulsively opened his mouth, but to say what, he didn't know. Maybe he wanted to tell Sherlock he loved him. But he couldn't, because Sherlock didn't love him back and he didn't want to leave knowing he'd ruined their friendship, which was infinitely more precious to him than all the riches in the world.

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking confused. "Did you want to say something?"

Now. He could say it now. "No," John said, shaking his head.

A slight frown marred Sherlock's face, but he didn't say anything.

"Actually," John said as a thought came to him. "I was wondering if, well, if you'd like me to write to you and Mrs. Hudson while I'm away. I promised Harry I'll write so if—"

"Yes," Sherlock said immediately. "Yes, please do."

"Okay." John let out a relieved laugh. "I'll write as soon as I can."

"Good. I'll ma—"

A bell chimed somewhere for 11 o'clock and John's jaw clenched. "I have to go."

Sherlock nodded and just like that, the mask had been put back in place.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't look like that." He wanted to touch him.

"I can't, John."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shook his head and John sighed. "Alright. But don't do that to Mrs. Hudson. You know how worried she gets."

"I know."

John nodded and he wished he could see Sherlock's true face one last time, but the façade would not crack and it was futile for him to wish it would so all he could do was say with finality, "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John."

He tried to smile, but it wouldn't come and with a last look into Sherlock's eyes, he shouldered his bag and walked away without a backward glance. He took only about ten agonizing steps before Sherlock suddenly called to him.

"John!"

He whirled around to see Sherlock striding after him, whipping his scarf off his neck in a move that was so devastatingly seductive that John had trouble keeping himself from jumping at Sherlock when he finally reached him. To his astonishment, the scarf was looped around his neck and the warmth and scent seeped into him, making his head whirl. "Sherlock? Wh—"

"Afghanistan can be very cold during winter," Sherlock said, smoothing the scarf so that it rested more comfortably around John's neck. "Hopefully this will keep you warm."

Touched, John looked up at him. "Are you sure? This is your—"

"I'm sure. It wouldn't do for you to catch pneumonia or worse while you're away. Mrs. Hudson would be furious."

"That's true." John fingered the scarf, feeling the fine material. "Thank you."

"Come home soon."

"I will." John smiled and, to his horror, felt his eyes prickle and sting. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

He quickly turned and began to walk briskly away, willing himself with all his strength not to break down right then and there. He forced himself not to look back, to keep his eyes forward, to not run back and tell Sherlock he loved him and that he wished he was back at 221B sipping a cup of tea by the fire while listening to one of Sherlock's compositions. He forced himself to keep moving. If he stopped, his composure will shatter.

It was only once he was on the plane, tucked away in a quiet corner, that John finally buried his head in his hands and let himself cry.

* * *

In less than five days, he was back in Afghanistan.

John was brought to a camp only a few miles away from the main fighting. He was shown to his barracks and was assigned a bunk. This will be "home" for the next few months.

As he laid in bed that night before lights out, his thoughts wandered to 221B. Was Sherlock playing his violin or was he out helping Lestrade solve a particularly difficult case? Is he eating? John had made sure Mrs. Hudson would be there to shove food down Sherlock's throat if necessary, but that doesn't mean Sherlock wouldn't manipulate her into leaving him alone. Well, even if he managed to do that, there was still Mycroft to contend with.

"Oi, Watson." He looked up to see his bunkmate, a younger man by the name of Tobias Singh, passing him a pencil and a notepad.

"What's this for?" John took them.

"So you can write to your girlfriend, of course."

"Oh. I, er, don't have a girlfriend."

"Really?" Singh poked his head down. "So who've you been moping after this whole time?"

"I wasn't moping," John said, scowling.

Singh snorted. "Could've fooled me." He watched as John tapped his pencil against the paper as he ruminated on what to write. "So who is it?"

"What?"

"The person you've been missing so much."

John sighed. "Just my best friend."

"He dead?"

"God, I hope not."

Singh eyed him shrewdly. "You in love?"

John looked at him sharply and Singh shrugged, or shrugged as much as he could while practically upside-down. "Not a problem if you're into blokes, Watson."

"I'm not gay," he said, almost tiredly.

Singh snorted again. "Right."

"No really, I'm not. But Sherlock is the only exception." Unbidden, Sherlock's words wandered into John's mind: _I always make exceptions for you, John._

"Maybe you're bi."

"No, I'm not. I've never been into men before Sherlock."

"He's pretty special, then."

John almost laughed. Singh had no idea. "Yeah, he is."

Singh watched him for a few more seconds, then swung himself back upright. "You might want to finish that letter now," he said from above. "Mail ships out tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Left alone with his thoughts, John started tapping on the paper again. What should he write? Not much has happened so far besides boot camp and a test to make sure they were still fit for the battlefield. John had passed with flying colors and his job at the clinic had deemed him ready to once again perform his duties as army doctor. Maybe he'll write about that.

 _ **Dear Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson,**_

Should he also include Lestrade?

 _ **Dear Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg,**_

 _ **The fighting hasn't started yet; all we've been doing so far was train and take exams. I've passed everything just fine**_

Dull. They wouldn't want to read about that. And he sounded like a child reporting back to his parents.

 _ **Dear Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg,**_

 _ **How's everything back home?**_

He hasn't even been gone a week. No need for that.

 _ **Dear Sherlock,**_

John stopped, frustrated. The words weren't coming to him. Everything sounded so bland and unremarkable. While war was by no means an exciting escapade, he had hoped he would have more things to write about before he sent news back home. He knew he should send something home now, to reassure them that he was fine before the fighting started and he would have fewer and fewer opportunities to write.

With that thought in mind, he ripped out the marked paper and started on a new one.

 _ **Dear Sherlock,**_

 _ **There hasn't much happening so far, as I'm sure you and everyone back home would be glad to hear. We've just been doing a bit of training and taking some exams. It's all a bit uneventful, but while at war, that's a good thing.**_

 _ **I wish that I could tell you more about what's been going on, or that I even have something to write about. But the most mentionable thing I can think about is the food. It's terrible. Have Mrs. Hudson send some biscuits soon, would you? I think my bunkmates would appreciate them.**_

 _ **I can't say for certain when I'll be sent out, but I have a feeling it's going to be very soon. There's been rumors of a frontal assault being planned, but I don't think they're true; it's too risky with our current situation. However, I have no doubt I'll be one of the first who will be sent out by next week.**_

 _ **How have you been? Are you eating and sleeping properly? You know if I catch wind that you haven't, I'll send someone to harass you. Any interesting cases lately? Tell me about some, would you? It'll be nice to hear about something familiar.**_

 _ **Give Mrs. Hudson a hug for me, if you don't mind. And tell Greg (Lestrade), when you see him, that I'm doing alright.**_

 _ **I'm looking forward to hearing from you soon.**_

 _ **John**_

He read it over, checking to see if there was anything else he should put in, before folding it up and sealing it in an envelope that Singh had clipped to the back of the notepad. He quickly penned another letter to Harry before passing the pencil and notepad back to Singh.

There were a lot of things left unsaid in the letter, things that John would have mentioned if it was anyone other than the focus of his unrequited love. He didn't write that the scarf was now folded into a pocket on his uniform right over his heart, or that every night he closed his eyes and summoned forth a mental image of Sherlock's smile or played a scrap of violin music from memory to lull him to sleep. It was all quite sentimental, and John felt that even if he had the opportunity to write such things to Sherlock, he wouldn't.

"Lights out in five," someone called and there was a scramble as everyone started making the final preparations for bed.

John put the letters on his nightstand and laid back down, drawing the blanket over himself. He closed his eyes and Sherlock appeared in his mind's eye, striding around a body while firing off deductions at rapid speed, his eyes blazing and his hands gesticulating his words. There was always something fascinatingly stunning about Sherlock whenever he was at a crime scene and John suspected he had begun falling for Sherlock ever since the very first case they were on together.

Perhaps John should tell him. When he returned to 221B, he should tell Sherlock how he felt about him.

He laughed to himself. No, that was never going to happen. But it was nice to dream.

The lights turned off.

* * *

Although John was asked to fill in as a medic, he found himself working his usual position of army doctor during their first battle.

He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and quickly administers the anesthetic to the crying boy on the operating table. The boy's legs were missing, torn away by a land mine, and John tried desperately to staunch the bleeding, salvage whatever's left. But within ten minutes of being under John's ministrations, the boy died from his wounds. The scene was far too familiar to him and he trembled, but could not grieve, because another soldier was placed on the table and John had to hurry to stitch up the gaping wound before the man bled out right before his eyes.

He saved many, but there were still several whose deaths he couldn't prevent and afterwards, John sits on his bunk and stares down at his shaking hands trembling around the rumpled fabric of Sherlock's scarf.

"I was crazy," he mumbled to himself. "Still am."

"Watson?"

John wearily looked up to see Arthur Ross, another army-doctor-turned-medic, standing in front of him. "Hullo, Ross," he said.

"I have your mail." Ross handed over a creased envelope and John smiled despite himself, seeing Sherlock's familiar script printed on the front.

"Thank you," he said, taking it and putting it down before putting his head in his hands again, pushing the scarf against his nose. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart with Sherlock's fading scent. It works, and he could feel the lump in his chest easing up.

"It's not your fault, you know."

John looked up to see Ross sitting down on the bunk across from his. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"All the people you couldn't save today, it's not your fault they died. Sometimes we can't do anything for them. We're not God." Ross spoke like he'd said the words one too many times before.

"I know," John said in return. "Believe me, I know." He rubbed his eyes. "It doesn't make it any easier."

Ross nodded and they fell into silence. Normally, John would have told them to piss off, but there was just something about Ross or perhaps it was the situation itself that made him appreciate the companionship. "Why did you accept?" John asked.

"Because the soldiers needed me." There was no hesitation in Ross's answer.

John nodded. He'd thought so. "So you did it because of honor."

"And for Queen and Country."

"Queen and Country." John rolled the words over and over in his mouth, remembering when he himself had gone to war for this very reason, and shook his head. "What a load of shit."

Ross shrugged good-naturedly. "It's all I have left." He gestured to John. "Why did you accept?"

John took his time answering. "Because sometimes I still see the battlefield in my dreams. It haunts me, but what haunts me more are the faces of all the people I couldn't save. Some of them were too young. A lot had family and loved ones. I came back… because this is my second chance to help." He shrugged, but it came off despairing instead of nonchalant. "Maybe I shouldn't have. Five… five men died today because I couldn't save them."

Ross's eyes softened. "We're not God," he repeated.

"I know," John said, almost snapping. He shook his head. "Sorry, I just—"

"It's alright. There isn't much I can say to help anyway," Ross says. But the sympathy in his eyes was more than enough.

They sit in silence for what feels like hours, feeling the weight of the world bear down on their shoulders until Ross finally sighs, stands, and claps John on the shoulder. "You're a good man, John."

Arthur Ross dies in combat 8 days later.

* * *

John ran through a warzone trying to get to a young Corporal who had been shot in the hip. The man's screams pierced the air, although they were drowned out by the sounds of grenades, mortars, and gunfire.

"Watch out!" Singh bellowed and John was tackled from behind. He was knocked to the ground, his face pressed into sand and dust and blood. And not a moment too soon, for a grenade exploded barely ten feet away with an earsplitting noise and a cloud of dust.

"Thanks," John coughed as soon as he got up.

"No problem." Singh trudged on ahead towards the Corporal. "Watch my 3 and 6."

John crouched nearby, his gun at the ready as Singh worked on the Corporal. A cry of pain caught his attention and he turned to see a soldier writhing on the ground, clutching his leg. Two bullets have hit him in the thigh and the fabric of his trousers was crimson with blood. "I'm going to go help!" he called to Singh, who nodded.

The boy looked up with wild, pain-filled eyes as John sprinted towards him. "H-Help."

"I got you." John quickly got out his kit. "Look at me." He gave the boy a quick slap when he started to black out. "Tell me your name, age, anything." He hurried to treat the wound before the boy passed out.

The boy choked something out, but it was muffled by the noise and the chaos. John only registered the pain in his voice.

"You're okay," he muttered as he finished tying off the bandage. A medic, a man from John's barracks whose name he forgot, grabbed the boy and hauled him away.

"Watson! We need you here!" He was up and running before they even finished saying his name.

This time it was a man with a hole going clean through his torso. John cursed as he examined him. "No good, we have to bring him back to camp." He signaled for another soldier to help him and they began to drag him away.

Bullets slapped the ground next to him and John immediately returned fire, feeling grim triumph when he noticed that none of the enemy bothered them again afterwards.

"He's not breathing!" the soldier yelled when John turned back.

"Move." He checked for a pulse, tried resuscitating him with CPR, but it was too late. "Damn. Damn!" The soldier tried to reach for him, but John grabbed his arm. "No."

"But, Captain—"

"It's too late for him. No. We'll have to collect the dead later."

John got up and left before the soldier could say anything else. The death left a bitter taste in his mouth and he felt a stab of self-hatred pierce his heart. But there was nothing he could do but move on to the next injured soldier.

A bomb detonated nearby and John was hurled off the ground. He flew back and hit the ground hard. His head snapped back and he found himself staring up at a clear blue sky with a bright sun that beamed painfully into his eyes. He squinted and groaned, both from the light and from his aching body. He'd scraped and banged his leg and one shoulder was dislocated.

"Sir, are you alright?" Another medic, a man named Akbar, crouched next to him.

"Dislocated shoulder," he grunted.

"I got it." Akbar pushed it back with a swift, hard push and John let out a shout as his eyes blurred from the pain.

"Thanks," he huffed as the pain subsided. He pulled his arm away as Akbar tried to put a makeshift sling around him. "Get back to the others."

"Sir, if you don't—"

"I'll be fine! Get back to the others!" Leaving a dislocated shoulder unattended was risky, but there were more people he had to help.

"Yes, sir." Akbar scrambled away and John bound his injured leg before getting up. His shoulder still hurt, but the pain had lessened and he was able to move it if he was careful. He picked his way towards the wall of sand bags. A group of soldiers were having trouble. They huddled behind the wall, waiting for a chance to retaliate.

"Captain!" one of them yelled as John slid into the tiny space next to them. "We haven't been able to get a good shot. Small got shot in the hand—"

"I know," John said, spotting the cringing soldier. He examined Small's hand, and winced as he saw that the man had lost two fingers. He wraps up the bleeding stumps and sends him on his way to get better treatment.

A few seconds later, the bullets stop hitting the sand bags and John and the soldiers immediately fired back. They managed to gain the upper hand for a second, but someone on the enemy's side threw a grenade.

"Grenade!"

They dived for cover, but the grenade smacked right into the sand bags and the explosion shook them. John's teeth rattled from the shock and his ears nearly popped from the noise. For a second, he couldn't hear anything.

Someone pulled him away from the sand bags and he struggled until he realized it was Singh. The man was yelling something, but John's ears were ringing and he couldn't hear. He blinked in bemusement.

Then suddenly Singh threw himself on top of him, shielding their heads with his arms. There was another earthshaking explosion and dirt and sand showered over them and John flinched as it landed in his eyes and mouth, reflexively closing them. Singh let out one terribly loud, pain-filled scream that echoed in John's ears. Then there was nothing but silence.

…

 _ **Sherlock,**_

 _ **My bunkmate, Tobias Singh, died protecting me from a grenade. It's not the first time someone has died because of me, but it's so different this time. He died protecting me. It's not a concept unknown to me, and yet I**_ _ **feel like**_ **know** _ **it's my fault. Singh shouldn't have had to die because of me. None of the men I couldn't save today should've died because of me. I was incompetent. I should've done better. God, Sherlock, I wish I never came back. I didn't know what I was thinking. Whatever made me think I could've made more of a difference this time, I wish it never came to me. I'm such an idiot. You would hate me, if you were here. So many men— some of them boys, even— died because I couldn't save them in time and now Singh died to save me. I must be crazy, coming back. I think I am.**_

 _ **I'm sorry for unloading all of this on you. I know you have that case with the drowned art student to worry about. How is it going? Did you solve it yet? I've said this before, but you better be taking care of yourself. The last letter from Lestrade said you hadn't eaten or slept in three days, working on the double homicide case with the antique rifle. I hoped he did as I asked and punched you for me.**_

 _ **Thank you for giving me the scarf. I know I said it to you before, but I feel it deserves a repeat. Afghanistan is bloody freezing now, and I've been taking a lot of night patrols. The scarf really keeps me warm, though it's more than a bit worn by now. I know you're using another scarf, but I'll buy you another to replace this one when I get back. It's the least I can do.**_

 _ **As always, please give my love to Mrs. Hudson. The biscuits she sent with your last letter were a Godsend.**_

 _ **John**_

This was the eighteenth letter John had written since the first one and he wearily watched as it was taken away with the others to be shipped back home for friends and family to read.

John had been in Afghanistan for four months now. Four months of cold, slushy snow, and blood. He shouldn't be complaining— he volunteered to come back— but he was even sicker of the battlefield than before. The guilt continued to gnaw at his insides while the cold bit at his extremities. Sleep had started to elude him and he could feel weariness dragging his steps and pulling at his eyelids, even if his mind wouldn't allow to rest.

Worse than that was the homesickness. He missed Sherlock. He missed him with a desperate, aching, longing sadness that crushed his heart and drove the air from his lungs. When he closed his eyes and could finally dream, he dreamt of warm nights in 221B by the fire, sipping tea and laughing with Sherlock about one thing or another. Sometimes Sherlock would be playing his violin. Other times, his fantasies would emerge, and they would be kissing, with John's hands cupped around Sherlock's face or lingering at his narrow hips, holding him tenderly. Sometimes they would move on to more than kissing, but that's when his imagination fails him. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be with Sherlock.

He wished he had the courage to find out before he left.

"Captain Watson!"

He snapped to attention at the sound of his name. A young corporal was jogging towards him. They exchanged salutes. "Sir, they're waiting for you at the south entrance," the corporal said.

John nodded and went to get his gear from inside the tent that served as the barracks. The unit he was in had moved away from the base three months ago to a temporary encampment they'd set up at the edge of enemy territory. Every day was spent in heightened tension, waiting for the enemy to strike while they sent convoys in, going deeper and deeper, trying to gain as much ground as they could.

The convoy being sent out today was to head southeast, aiming towards a little village that was occupied by the enemy. They capture that, and a whole swath of territory was theirs. John was there as medic, although he would also lead his own small unit.

He followed the corporal to the line of vehicles waiting by the gates. His unit was waiting in one. "Nice to see you show up, Watson," the driver, a man named Batista, called.

John dismissed the corporal and went to ride shotgun. "Aw, were you all waiting for me? I'm touched."

"More like touched in the head," a lieutenant behind him muttered. "What took you so long? We almost had to leave without you."

"I had something important to do," John said vaguely, strapping himself into the seat.

"Letter to your boyfriend, Captain?" another man asked, smirking slightly.

"Shut it, you." He rolled his eyes, and leaned out the window to check with the commanding officer.

They were rolling out minutes later, following the road towards their destination.

John reached into his breast pocket, touched the folded scarf stuffed into it. It was ragged with use and rough and faded from the detergent he used to wash it, but it was Sherlock's.

Some other gifts he'd received from home are mostly in the form of food. Lestrade had sent a woolen jumper around Christmastime, saying it was the most hideous one he could find. It was a horrible shade of olive green with white pompoms splashed on top of it in a facsimile of snow while a horde of misshapen reindeer ran across the bottom, dragging a red rectangle of a sleigh with black runners behind them. Ugly though it may be, it was warm— made of alpaca wool— and almost presentable once John took off the pompoms. The reindeer and sleigh were woven into the jumper, however, but since he wore it under his uniform where no one would see it, he didn't mind.

Sherlock hadn't sent any Christmas presents, only a letter atop a box of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits— which were a huge hit amongst John's unit. But he didn't need to send a present to make John happy. Just hearing from him was enough.

 _ **Molly also sends her regards, and wishes you a Happy Christmas, as do I**_ **,** Sherlock wrote on the bottom of the letter John received sometime after New Year's. Perhaps John was just a sappy lovesick fool, but those few words made John's entire miserable, cold, bloody week.

The other soldiers were always encouraging John to confess, having guessed on their own his feelings for Sherlock. "Do it now, in case something happens. Then go home and snog the living daylights out of each other," one man said.

In the end, the most John could do was tell them he'll think about telling him once he got home. They shook their heads, but left him alone. They had bigger problems to worry about. Even though many invalidated and discharged soldiers agreed to return for a brief tour, it still wasn't enough, and more and more men were being sent home again each day.

The fighting neither increased nor decreased since they'd moved to their encampment, but each fight was bloody and vicious, and the locals were terrified. John knew enough of the native tongue to know they wished they— both the enemy and the British Army— would leave them alone.

"We're trying to help you," John wanted to say. But they wouldn't listen, no matter how hard he'd try to talk to them, and all he could do is help bury the civilian casualties, patch up his fallen comrades, and head back to camp.

The vehicle he was in suddenly slowed then stopped abruptly, jolting John from his thoughts. "What's going on?" he asked Batista.

"I dunno. But they've stopped." He pointed at the vehicle in front of them.

A burst of static in their headphones startled them. "Possible IEDs up ahead. Proceed with caution."

They started again, though at a much slower pace than before. They were coming up a rise in the land and John scanned his surroundings suspiciously. This was a good location for an ambush.

But nothing happened, and they continued on their way, slowly picking up speed until—

 _BOOM._

From up ahead, a column of smoke suddenly erupted as an IED exploded under the lead vehicle. The force of it was enough to turn the vehicle to its side. Suddenly, out of nowhere, gunfire was roaring and John ducked, startled enough that he couldn't figure out where the bullets were coming from.

"On the left!"

"No, right!"

"It's a trap!"

"Watson, we gotta get out of here!" Batista yelled. "We're like fucking sitting ducks!"

John pounded the dashboard. "Then get us the fuck out!"

Glass shattered as the side mirror exploded and John instinctively flinched back. "Drive, damn it!"

Batista jerked the wheel to the right, performing an awkward U-turn. The convoy was in chaos around them. The unanimous unspoken decision was to retreat, but some were fighting back. John spotted a man huddled behind one vehicle, his face screwed up in pain as he clutched his right leg, which was covered in blood.

"Hold on, hold on!" John said quickly. He grabbed Batista's arm to stop him and the vehicle jerked to a stop. "I have to get to him."

"Watson, you're gonna get killed out there!"

"Then cover me!" Without a second thought, he opened the door and leapt out.

"Fuck!" he heard Batista yell after him.

John sprinted to the soldier's side, in an awkward half crouch. He skidded to a stop next to him and the soldier looked up at him pleadingly. "It's alright, you're gonna be alright." John lifted the soldier's hands away from his leg and withdrew a tourniquet from his med pack, strapping it around the leg. "Okay, let's get you out of here," he said, hoisting the soldier up.

Two soldiers nearby motioned to him, indicating they would cover them. John nodded and on unspoken command, they rushed towards Batista's vehicle, moving as fast as they could. But the soldier's lame leg hindered progress and John's bad shoulder started to burn from the strain. The vehicle wasn't far, however, and they were getting closer.

Then it all went to shit.

One of the soldiers covering them suddenly flinched back and fell to the ground, twitching. Red was blooming on his clothes from a bullet wound in his neck. His eyes stared upwards into the sky, terrified, before the light suddenly went out of them as he bled to death.

Horrified, John could do nothing but step past the body.

But they were far more exposed now and they were moving slow— too slow.

The soldier John was half-carrying was sobbing something in a harsh, panicked whisper. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God."

"Watson!" Batista was frantically gesturing to them. "Hurry up!"

His shoulder gave a twinge of pain. He swore under his breath.

"Move your ass, Cap!" one of his men howled.

He was so close. Barely five feet away. So close—

"Grenade!"

An explosion rocked the air, sending shockwaves. John reeled back, slipped, and crumpled to the ground. The soldier cried out as they fell, but John barely heard it as he struggled to get to his feet again.

His head was fuzzy. His ears were ringing. He was disoriented. For a moment, he remembered Singh, right before he died.

And then Batista was there, grabbing him and the wounded soldier and dragging them away towards their vehicle. They make it in and they were moving, away from the battlefield back towards their base. They were safe. They made it out.

A flash. Another earth-shaking boom and suddenly the world was tilting sideways.

The vehicle plowed into the ground, jarring its occupants. John smacked his head into something, probably Batista's arm. It hurt. He probably got a concussion.

He couldn't breathe. The crash of the vehicle falling to its side shattered the glass. Shards cut into exposed skin.

They had to get out. But John couldn't move for some reason. He tried to look around, but the only part of him that obeyed any command was his eyes. Batista was to his left, unconscious. The wounded soldier was stirring feebly, groaning.

His head hurt. He could feel himself slipping into darkness. He wanted to rest. He shouldn't. He had to get out. Had to get back to Sherlock.

 _Sherlock_.

He blinked. It was hard to open his eyes. He could hear yelling, somewhere. He thought he smelled gasoline. The vehicle was going to explode. They had to get out.

He couldn't move. He wanted to sleep.

He closed his eyes and did not open them again.

 _Sherlock._

* * *

Thousands of miles away, Sherlock Holmes stood over a body at a crime scene at Canary Wharf and wondered at the feeling of dread he suddenly felt.


End file.
